Embers Extinguished
by Epigone1
Summary: What really happened on June 5th and 6th at the barricades? (FINALLY FINISHED!!!)
1. Gamin

Embers Extinguished

Disclaimer: 

None of the Amis belong to me (Victor, how much do you want for them?), and Gavroche isn't mine either. They're all Victor Hugo's, I must reluctantly admit. So don't sue me, don't imprison me, and, most of all, don't hit me. Because then I'd be very offended.

Aha, BUT. Jean-Luc is mine. Not that he's very interesting, or that he's anything more than a terribly obvious device to introduce Hugo's characters with, but he _is_ mine. I did get one original character in this section. I'm so proud.

Chapter 1: Gamin

On the 5th of June, 1832, a chimneysweep came hop-skip-and-shuffle through the pounding rain washing down the roughly cobbled Rue de la Chanvrerie. His worn wooden shoes clattered loudly on the wet stones, and the noise echoed against bolted doors and shuttered windows. In one damp, soot-smudged hand he clutched a single sou with the absurdly fierce possessiveness that is characteristic of someone (especially if that someone is a child) who actually carries something of relatively little value. Chest thrown out, he whistled a dreadful rendition of a theater tune he had recently heard, his eight-year-old brain churning with the importance of being a family breadwinner.

Past rickety buildings braced with beams and steaming trash heaps he tripped, seemingly unaware of the dreadful oppressiveness that lingered in the muggy summer air, unaware of the little piles of glass beneath each shattered lamp, unaware even of the distinct odor of melting metal. He flipped the coin in the air, admiring the way the hardly visible sun sent glimmers of sharp gold off its edge. Ahead of him, the street before him narrowed off sharply, and the boy followed it with only a brief glance about to make sure he was still heading in the right direction. The cobblestones finally ended in a seeming dead end at more half-collapsed house-fronts, from behind which rang out the anxious clang and babble (had the boy been paying more attention, he would have noticed the clang and babble was a little more anxious and yet a little more subdued than usual) of the Les Halles markets beyond.

Twenty-five yards before the house-fronts that bounded Les Halles, the Rue Mondétour slashed across the gutters, providing the only two routes off the end of the street. On the corner of the right intersection hulked a squat house; at only three stories, it ranked as the shortest building on the block. The boy finally looked up from his coin, and nearly dropped it in surprise at the appearance of this building and the intersection.

He passed this place nearly every day, occasionally rapping a stick on the old blue post driven into the ground next to the gutter. The post was still here today, its pitted surface displaying a roughly painted sketch of a bunch of grapes and, in gold lettering, the words "The Grape of Corinth". Yes, the sign was still there, and the building itself was still there, but the street had been dismantled. 

Overturned cobblestones lay crookedly across the opening of the Rue Mondétour on the left. The street ahead of the boy, too, was blocked by wooden furniture, broken cobblestones, beams and old winecasks piled five feet high. Standing on the partially constructed barricades were men of all types, jacketed or shoeless and bare-chested, holding carbines, muskets and scattered pikes. A handsome young man stood proudly at the pinnacle of the larger barricade, urging on those hauling up more rubble. His blond brows were tightened passionately in his high forehead, and his piercing blue eyes blazed with excitement.

The boy stood dumbfounded in the shadow of the mounting heap. He timidly placed his empty hand on the leg of a table protruding from the stones. Resolve hardened his jaw, and he began to clamber, unnoticed, up the barricade.

A loose stone shifted unexpectedly beneath his foot, and he flung an arm upward, trying to find a handhold. Finding none, he groped out wildly across the sheer side of the blockade, beginning to topple backward. A small dirty hand shot down and clutched his forearm. The boy looked up, startled, as soon as he had scrabbled to a sturdier perch.

A ragged child with scraggly red hair poking from beneath a baggy cap hung gamely to a higher ledge while holding the younger boy steady. The little chimneysweep, with the help of the older boy, managed to climb further up the barricade to sit next to him.

The older child looked at him with a scolding, superior air.

"Little boy, you shouldn't be here. We're at war. See these fellows?" He jerked his head at the men sweating below them. "They're helping me build my barricade. You wanted to come over, you should've come through that little passage, see? We're leaving it open for now." He then grandly held up a rusty, hammerless pistol. "I might of thought you were with the National Guard. I would've shot you. Then where'd you be? Dead on the street like Hercules. Your blood might have soiled our city's fine clean gutters. Vive la République!"

Nearby, a tall, slender young student with long dark hair and a solemn face, deftly fastening a table to the barricade, smiled sarcastically. "Certainly these gutters have never tasted blood before."

The chimneysweep understood little of the older boy's monologue or the student's reply. At the gamin's shout, another young man had glanced down at them from atop the barricade, grinning. He waved his carbine aloft, and his red sleeves flapped in the air.

"The Guard! To arms!"

The chimneysweep cringed fearfully, but no one fired. In fact, no one showed the slightest interest in what the man in red was so excited about. A short man with longish brown hair, who was grunting with exertion over a cobblestone, called over to the "red man" (as the chimneysweep was now thinking of him), kicking a sword aside.

"Bahorel, what manner of citizen are you accosting now?"

A wiry youth nearby scowled. "One or another streetrat kid."

The chimneysweep bit his lip, warily watching the man called Bahorel clamber towards him. Bahorel bounded lightly down beside the older boy, clapping him on the shoulder.

"You're doing a fine job, citizen," Bahorel drawled with affected gravity. "You've built up this deck of our great revolutionary ship very well." The older boy beamed, cocking his dirty cap forward at an even jauntier angle. Bahorel turned to gaze at the chimneysweep, running a hand through his rumpled sandy hair. "And who is our friend, the little blackened monkey?" He frowned amiably.

The older boy turned to look at the "blackened monkey" too.

"Dunno know the môme's name," he admitted.

The chimneysweep swallowed.

"Jean-Luc," he said softly.

The older boy thrust out a grubby paw.

"Gavroche. Good t' knowya." Jean-Luc stared at the proffered hand but didn't shake it. Gavroche's smile didn't waver as he dropped his hand.

"The pleasure," Bahorel noted, "would seem to be all his." He dipped in a sardonic half-bow to Jean-Luc. "Bahorel." He grinned and raised his eyebrows, adding, "Of the Parisian Reds." He winked sarcastically at Gavroche, then noticed Jean-Luc glancing nervously at his carbine.

"I don't shoot alleycats," he added. "Just Guards."

"He's no cat," remarked Gavroche flippantly. "A good-sized cat'd eat him. Already ate his tongue, no?"

Jean-Luc flushed in embarrassment and scowled at his feet. He was grateful for the diversion provided by the short sword-wielding student who had spoken to Bahorel earlier. This student suddenly sprang up from his pavingstone, damp curls flying in the light rain, at the clatter of hooves at the entrance to the Rue Chanvrerie from the Rue Saint-Denis. Two dusty white horses pulling an omnibus came cantering towards the main barricade, and the student ran at them through the small passage between barricade and houses, crying, "An omnibus doesn't pass by Corinth!"

Bahorel looked up with a jubilant smile. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted after his running friend.

"Courfeyrac! For the barricade?"

Courfeyrac threw him a glance over his shoulder and grinned in affirmation. Upon reaching the omnibus, he sprang for the thin leather reins and gathered them in his hands, bringing the horses to a stop. The coachman climbed down from his perch and conferred with Courfeyrac for some minutes. Then he opened the omnibus door, explained the situation to the passengers, and left the street with great haste.

The abandoned passengers scrambled out and stood in the street uncertainly. Courfeyrac unhitched the horses and slapped their rumps to send them off. The horses reared nervously, and then thundered off back from whence they had come. Courfeyrac then led the four passengers through the gap in the barricade, calling up to the blond man as he passed.

"Enjolras! These lovely ladies," - he smiled roguishly here - "and their escorts need to get through to the Rue du Cygne."

The student called Enjolras waved them through impatiently. He looked rather harshly at Courfeyrac, irritation at such a petty interruption etched across his handsome visage.

"Fine, hurry. Matthias, Bossuet-! Gather some men and drag the omnibus to the barricade. Feuilly, fix the flag up on its pole."

Men swarmed out across the barricade to follow his orders. Feuilly, the tall dark student who had earlier spoken to Gavroche and Jean-Luc about blood in the gutters, sprinted after them with the flag. Courfeyrac brought the passengers to the little Mondétour barricade, motioned the men over, and inclined his head respectfully to the two women. He offered his arm courteously and helped them over, smiling and chatting easily all the way. The younger women, scarcely more than a girl, flashed him a flirtatious smile before following her companions down the street. Courfeyrac blinked, watching her go. Finally, shaking his head and shrugging, he rejoined his friends at the main barricade.

Gavroche glanced down at Jean-Luc, who was watching the proceedings with wide-eyed interest. He cuffed the smaller boy gently on the shoulder.

"Guard's going to attack soon. It won't be pretty, and no kid like you should see it. Go – wherever you were going."

Jean-Luc looked at him curiously.

"Why are you staying? Aren't you a- a kid?"

"A môme like mézig is an orgue," Gavroche countered easily. Jean-Luc furrowed his brow in confusion at the street argot, and Gavroche clucked his tongue, laughing loudly. "Ah, forget, you're an honest working-class child. Very sorry." He chuckled a bit longer, then straightened. "Now, go home."

"Yes . . ." Jean-Luc hesitated, uncertain, then shook the raindrops from his soot-blackened hair. Gavroche stood up next to him. 

"You know how to get through here?"

Jean-Luc nodded. "I'm going to the markets with my money for food." He fished his coin out of a tattered pocket and held it up proudly. "For the whole family."

Gavroche nodded distractedly. "Good. I dunno if there are many stalls left open – most people've left. They're scared. Won't fight for mother France. Ah." He shook his head contemptuously. "Oh well."

Jean-Luc nodded importantly, sharing Gavroche's scorn. He turned to go, then pursed his lips and looked back at Gavroche.

"M'sieur?"

Gavroche sighed. "Hmm?"

"You think you'll die in your war?" 

He noticed Courfeyrac, who was sitting nearby counting weapons, look up sharply and suck in his cheeks thoughtfully, then lower his head slowly back to his task.

Gavroche grinned expansively.

"Me? With those so-called guns the Guard carries? Ha! We pups, we're too fast to get hit by those artifacts."

Feuilly stood up further along the barricade, having finished fixing the flag to the omnibus pole. He flexed his shoulders and looked at the two boys.

"You should get that 'fast pup' out now. The Guard'll be coming."

Gavroche laughed and leapt excitedly up the barricade, gaily crying out, "Aha, men, they'll be here soon! Is our reception ready?"

Jean-Luc looked earnestly up at the milling mass of revolutionaries, watching Gavroche dance about atop the barricade for some moments. He then looked back down at his coin, shining it on his sooty shirt with a protective air. Finally, he turned on his heel and scampered off down the Rue Mondétour, away from the raucous sounds of rebels in their final hours.

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More to come . . .


	2. Insurgent

Author's Note: 

Author's Note: 

Numero uno: this still isn't finished. I can't say I know when it will be, but I'm working on it whenever I have time (which, believe you me, isn't often).

Secondly, I want to say that I'm not going to ask you to "be nice" or "go easy on me" just because I'm new at writing fanfic. Quite the contrary; please, be hypercritical. If you think some aspect of my story is totally unrealistic, say so in your review (of course, that _does_ mean you have to review it, right?). If you think somebody's entirely out of character, say so. If you think the entire story is unoriginal, unlikely and badly written, say so! At least then I'll know I should either completely rework it or toss it. Just don't flame me for flaming's sake. That's boring, and it really doesn't actually help me. Though I suppose that if you're going to flame me, you don't really want to be helpful in the first place. Ah well.

As I said, more chapters coming ASAP. 

Chapter 2: Insurgent

Courfeyrac watched the boy flit off through the shadowy street, then turned his attention back to the lifting of the omnibus into the small passage between the larger barricade and the houses. His eyes flicked upwards, and he saw Enjolras, fair and sublime, standing above the straining backs of his fellow revolutionaries.

"See him," Courfeyrac thought admiringly. "All of these men look to him for guidance. He's not the oldest here, not by far, nor the most experienced, nor the wisest nor most charming, yet they would all follow him anywhere - even those who have only just met him. Why?" He blinked slowly. "Because . . . he has a vision, and through his eyes we all can see it."

Would Mahiette see that vision and not begrudge Courfeyrac his ideals if he didn't come away from this wineshop alive? He tightened his lips unhappily. No, most likely not. Even in this most treacherous of hours he could see her fond, half-scolding smile as she carried his young nephew up to his room in the Rue de la Verrerie, and he gave a quiet, reflexive laugh, forgetting for a moment the wretched, devastated street before him and the stifling, metallic smoke lingering in the muggy air. His affectionate yet patronizing older sister, witty and sharp-tongued . . . how she reproved him, with mock-exasperation, for his easy ways and carelessness in his studies at the university! How she amiably complained about his womanizing ways and warned baby Theó not to grow up like his terrible uncle! Courfeyrac could imagine how angry she would be if she knew where he was, or if she saw the danger he was putting himself in. She respected his political views, and agreed with some of them, but she had never realized how seriously he took them. For that matter, _he'd_ never really realized how seriously he took them - until today.

He shook his head and sighed loudly. Getting introspective like this now was useless; at this point, having come so far, it was better to do than question why. Perhaps at the back of his mind he knew the fast-approaching fate of the barricade and its defenders; perhaps it was only his feverishly excited imagination. Did it really make a difference any longer?

He smiled grimly, and the severe expression, so incongruous on his normally carefree face, made a young student next to him shift rather uneasily. No, he wasn't going to change anything now. Mahiette was no child, and she would, in time, come to terms with whatever happened at this barricade. Rubbing his temples, he threw a faint, reassuring grin to the nearby boy and gave his thoughts over to lighter matters - that pretty girl he'd helped over the barricade, for example.

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	3. Winecask

Acknowledgement/Disclaimer:

Acknowledgement/Disclaimer:

Certain bits of dialogue in here were written by Victor Hugo, not I. Everything Enjolras and Joly say in this section was written by Hugo, as is most of what Grantaire and Courfeyrac say. I don't wish to take the credit for writing this dialogue (though I'd sure love to be able to write like good old Victor). I decided it would be best if I used Hugo's dialogue in the spots where characters spoke, while also adding my own dialogue in areas where Hugo, as the narrator, was not "present" to specify whether someone said something or not, or where I just felt he left something out (yes, the dead French people in my head have told me the _real_ story). 

Oh, and a quick note - one of the original (gasp! Yes, spirrogg has flashes of ingenuity now and then, inconceivable as it may seem) boys in my head makes his first appearance in a fanfic in this section. Be nice to him, even though his name isn't given in this particular story. Anyway, sorry I took so long updating this. I had some major problems with it, and I'm extremely busy doing other stuff anyway. No, of course it's still not completed.

Chapter 3: Winecask

Grantaire glanced out the window at Enjolras, wishing he could catch his eye. Wishing he could say something now that was appropriate or meaningful (_was_ that too much to ask?) so that Enjolras might look up and . . . just see him, perhaps.

He inhaled slowly. "We're all going to die here, regardless," he noted, too softly for anyone to hear. "Why the hell's it matter?"

Nevertheless, he couldn't stop thinking. It was disturbing - he'd had plenty of absinthe already, but of course this was the one day that his mind somehow managed to struggle clear of that enshrouding mist. Less than an hour ago he'd been wonderfully intoxicated, had been able to talk long and loud about nothing of any import. Why should he be lucid now?

A random image skittered into his mind, an image from when Enjolras and the others had turned onto the Rue de la Chanvrerie. Enjolras had stood out in the pattering rain, crying out for men to join them, to fight for their families. A apparent tide of workers had surged forth to them (in momentary sobriety and enduring blunt realism, Grantaire could now see that the supposed tide was actually a hopeless ragtag trickle), and Enjolras had stood in the midst of the melee with a beatific, serene cast to his features. His eyes had been cast skyward, his hair flung back in damp locks, and it had seemed to Grantaire that the streaming misty sunlight illuminated his countenance for all of heaven and earth to gaze upon in breathless awe.

Though he was looking down at Enjolras from the window, Grantaire still felt as if was gazing up at some unattainable star. That random image he had just recalled was representative of what Enjolras had always been: the unshakable, unchanging focal point of all that mattered in this or any other world. And even now, Grantaire, cast in the deepest pits of despair, had ridiculous faith in the man. Expressing such sentiments to Enjolras was, of course, unthinkable. Their fearless leader was too proud and disdainful, too chaste, pure, intimidating - in short, everything Grantaire could never be.

The charade had gone on long enough. He had followed these men on their insane and useless quest, managed, for a time, to keep the few embers of hope left to him aglow, but it was over. With a terrible wrenching sensation in his stomach, he looked about wildly, realizing the absolute futility of his whole life, recognizing that his existence was unredeemable. Standing on the shadowy brink of ambiguous fate, gazing into the eternal abyss stretching before him, he saw, for a moment, his certain, drunken, pathetic demise. He looked, terrified, to Enjolras, but suddenly the absinthe was clouding his vision again and he was utterly alone. His hand trembled, and the half-full jug of mixed wine on the table rattled with the vibration. Hearing this, he reached out and grasped the jug with the petrified strength of a drowning man, and, shuddering, brought it to his lips. He gulped at the sweet fluid, letting it spill over his chin. He downed it in one swallow, then, feeling only slightly better, rasped an order to Fricassée.

"More drink!"

Courfeyrac, who was helping Bossuet haul a table down to the barricade, looked up at him from the stairs, half-worried and half-admonishing.

"Grand R," he called, "how much have you already had?"

Grantaire laughed unsteadily at him, seizing the jug that he had just been handed and raising it high.

"One more!" He threw back his head and drank, then slammed the jug onto the table with an aggrieved look when he found one gulp had emptied this bottle as well. He rapped on the table, glowering amiably at Fricassée. She obliged, wearily sliding him another jug before plodding back down to the barricade. 

Ma'am Hucheloup moaned from the floor beside the table, rocking back and forth on her heels, praying loudly for mercy to God and anyone else who would listen. Joly, still slightly tipsy, glanced at her and rose shakily to his feet from his chair near Grantaire. He tottered his way over to Ma'am Hucheloup and crouched down beside her, kissing the old woman passionately on the neck. Then, with an air of absurd solemnity, he noted to Grantaire, "My dear fellow, I've always considered a woman's neck an infinitely delicate thing".

Grantaire trailed his fingers across the table, feeling the wondrous warmth of absinthe stealing through him. Noticing Chowder lumbering up the stairs, he sprang rather dazedly to his feet. He caught the servingwoman deftly about the waist as she ascended the last step, and launched into a rambling dissertation on the creation of this supremely ugly being. Courfeyrac passed him on the way down to the barricade again. He grabbed Grantaire's arm, shaking it violently.

"Be still, winecask," he hissed desperately, knowing that Enjolras could hear Grantaire's tirade, and also knowing the inevitable outcome of any confrontation between the two men. Obliviously inebriated, Grantaire released Chowder's waist and thrust the offending arm away in the same motion. He glared at Courfeyrac, raising his fist for added emphasis.

"I am Capitoul and Master of Floral Games!" He laughed wildly, then choked on his drink. Spluttering, he backed up against the window overlooking the street.

Starkly outlined against the sky at the highest point of the barricades, Enjolras swung around, frowning in irritation, and glanced up. Seeing Grantaire lean against the windowsill, raving nonsense, his face hardened, and he flushed slightly with anger. His lip curled, and his voice rang out, sharp and derisive, in the small area between the two barricades.

"Grantaire, go sleep it off somewhere else." His eyes burned icily into Grantaire's, and the drunkard shrunk back a little, even in his intoxicated state, by simple reflex.

A short, wiry workingman-turned-revolutionary looked up, as did the rest of the men on the barricades, at the sound of Enjolras' voice. Most of the rebels soon lost interest, having seen such conflicts between Enjolras and Grantaire in the previous hours. The lean man, however, kept his mildly interested gaze on the unfolding drama.

He finally smirked, dropping his eyes, and elbowed a nearby boy, who was, judging from his garb, a fellow workingman. The wiry one rolled his eyes dramatically as he spoke.

"There's our phoenix of a commander," - this said with surly sarcasm - "scolding his pathetic, subservient shadow again." He ran a hand through his curly, close-cropped hair. "Very predictable, these students." There was a shade of scornful emphasis on the last word.

The boy shrugged, continuing to fit pavingstones into the barricade. Sighing and quirking a thin, dark brow, the other went back to his task as well.

Meanwhile, Enjolras continued to stare, disgusted, at Grantaire. Grantaire reddened under those piercing eyes and lowered his head, letting tousled dark locks fall across his face. Finally, Enjolras sneered, opening his stance to address his comrades along with the drunkard.

"This is the place for intoxication, not drunkenness." He looked grimly at them all for a moment, then turned back to Grantaire, facial muscles tensing in offended fury, and slammed a fist into the other open palm.

"Don't dishonor the barricade."

Grantaire flinched separately at each syllable. His legs began to crumple beneath him, but he managed to throw an arm out, clutching at the table behind him, maneuvering his body so that it dropped into a seat as if his sitting down was intentional. His pulse throbbed painfully, and he clenched his jaws to keep himself from crying out. He could - and did - endure Enjolras' scorn, indifference, disdain, even his hatred . . . but the idea that Enjolras might truly be (disappointed in?!) ashamed of him was so repugnant, so terrifying, that he felt weak. Enjolras could not have produced a greater effect on Grantaire had he struck him.

Grantaire leaned heavily on the table, trying to catch his breath. He was horribly conscious of Enjolras' gaze boring into his slumped form. Finally, he raised his head and sat up, vision swimming. He blinked, clearing his eyes. His hands trembled against his breast, and he clasped them, attempting to steady himself in a discreet manner. He simply looked at Enjolras for a time, hard as it was, with a terrible expression of wistfulness and wisdom. When he spoke, he did it softly, demurely.

"Let me sleep here." Grantaire had to swallow the lump in his throat. He was so unused to speaking to Enjolras in such a gentle manner; he'd always before been half-serious, intentionally aggravating - nothing more than unignorable and senseless background noise.

Enjolras' features hardened even more at the tone, and he raised his voice a little more, not minding that everyone nearby was privy to Grantaire's chastisement.

"Go sleep somewhere else!"

Grantaire again flinched noticeably, but, with a struggle, kept his gaze level. He breathed deeply, staring at Enjolras so unwaveringly he thought he might be blinded by the other's brilliance. He put his hand, palm down, on the table before him, almost plaintively, licking his suddenly dry lips.

"Let me sleep here-" The words caught painfully in his throat, and he cursed himself mentally. Damnit, Grantaire, already said that! Where's the renowned rhetoric now? He blinked bitterly, shoulders rising involuntarily in a gesture of helplessness.

" -Until I die here." He finished falteringly, shivering slightly.

Enjolras barked a short, mirthless laugh, and his eyes flashed contemptuously. His voice was low, but each word was uttered forcibly enough that every man present could hear.

"Grantaire." The sound was cold, harsh. Grantaire watched him in grave, submissive silence.

"You're incapable of belief, of thought, of will, of life, and of death." Enjolras' jaw was firmly set; his tone was emotionless. He delivered his verdict with cold confidence, then swung away smoothly, glancing disinterestedly at his fellow insurgents.

The guilty party went quite pale behind his tangled, straggling locks, and his mouth trembled the slightest bit. A hint of sheer, desperate terror appeared in the haunted grey eyes. Still he sat erect, motionless. After a time, he wet his lips again.

"You'll see." The words were uttered softly, tremulously, even breathlessly, like the words of some pilgrim at a shrine, fearful of speaking too loudly lest some listening god took offense.

Grantaire's pulse began thundering in his temples, but he continued gazing at Enjolras' back as long as he could bear to. He finally dipped his head jerkily, ineffectually swiping at the hair in his face, trying to force his eyes to focus on something as concrete as the table before him. He tried to speak - though he knew not what he was preparing to say - but his tongue would not obey, and he stumblingly pronounced several nonsensical syllables. Blinking rapidly, he struggled to stay upright, but his quaking elbows slid out weakly. Defeated, he pitched forward with a groan, eyes rolling back. His dark hair trailed across the table as he fell away into dark, disconnected slumber, and his gaunt face drew up in tight angles even in repose.

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	4. Firebrand

Author's Note (it's brief this time, I swear

Author's Note (it's brief this time, I swear!):

Enjolras needed fleshing out (that or debauching, but I won't go there, not now). Oh, and does anyone have any more feedback on this? It's bothering me. But it's almost done, really.

Chapter 4: Firebrand

Enjolras could not help but cast a glance back at the snoring drunkard. For a moment, as his eyes skimmed Grantaire's limp body in the window above, his severe face softened, though so slightly that the change was nearly imperceptible. Thoughtfully, he narrowed his eyes, fingers flicking in contemplative agitation. Then, angry, he shook himself, sinking his nails briefly into his palm to bring himself back to the present.

His gaze shifted down, scanning the sweaty, exhilarated faces of his fellow rebels toiling beneath him. A muscle in his jaw twitched victoriously, and he blinked at the shadowy sky, shivering slightly with anticipation in the cooling twilight breeze.

"With the dawn," he breathed, fingering the omnibus flag, "Paris will throw of her yoke of oppression amidst the shambles of her people's barricades." Raising his eyebrows a bit, he looked around quickly with an almost self-conscious air.

Combeferre, standing directly beneath the crest of one of these said barricades, heard this and lifted his head. He looked serenely at Enjolras, light brown eyes glittering, gently amused, in a gaze that was both eager and placid.

Jehan, leaning against a chair beside Combeferre, glanced up as well and smiled, a bit startled at their leader's verbosity.

"Orpheus, cease your pretty verse," laughed Bossuet, coming over and elbowing Jehan companionably in the ribs with the heightened joviality of a man who has had a little too much wine. "You'll have our cobblestones weeping." He grinned lopsidedly at Enjolras.

Combeferre smiled briefly, looking back at Jehan too. 

"Another warrior poet." 

Jehan looked a bit miffed at the appellation of "warrior" as applied to himself, but he humored the others. "Formidable indeed." 

Bossuet merely lifted an amiably dubious brow.

Enjolras, distracted, said nothing, watching a few nearby men hauling yet another table onto the blockade. Bossuet finally shrugged, realizing there would be little action in this quarter, and wandered off, but not before tilting an unreadable look up at Grantaire in the window. Combeferre placed a hand lightly on Jehan's shoulder, leaned in, and resumed a previous hushed conversation.

Their leader flexed his shoulders, reaching down to help the other men pull the table into place. They deposited it with nods of gratitude, and then went back into the wineshop for more furniture.

Bossuet lounged carelessly against a pile of barrels heaped against the nearest housefront, drumming his fingers against the damp wood. He cast an injured, rather indignant glance on the group of young men who, noticing the unused barrels, descended on his resting-place. He grimaced affably and sauntered through the wineshop door. Enjolras frowned briefly at his retreating back and then sank back into his own disquieted thoughts.

The majority of the men continued seeking more items to use on the barricade, and so Enjolras was left to struggle with his half-formed regrets alone. Why he should have them, he didn't know; his hands clenched in confused frustration.

He sighed after a bit, dropping his arm loosely to his side. And while it took him some time to compose himself, he was untouchable as ever the next time Combeferre looked casually over.

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Right, one more chapter to go…


	5. The Flame Dies

Author's note: 

Author's note: 

I have little to say - I'm just stunned and relieved and rather overjoyed that I have finally finished this. The ending is liable to be subjected to spontaneous change whenever I become too disgusted with the way it is at present. It shouldn't ever change in spirit - I simply happen to hate it as it is, but I see no way of reworking it right now. When I acquire more taste, I'll get back to you.

Chapter 5: The Flame Dies

The rain had ceased its incessant patter while the dimly grey sky was still expecting dawn. With its dying out had come the Guard's various onslaughts on the pathetically small, isolated corner of the Rue Mondétour and the Rue de la Chanvrerie, each bringing more of the inevitable artillery, grapeshot, muskets and troops. The street echoed frantically in forgotten crevices, first with the dull thunder of the heavens, then with the tremendous thunder of scattered cannons stationed at intervals along the street.

But by the time the pulsating rim of the sun had finally separated completely from the browned horizon, the echoes too were dying out. The morning crept relentlessly up and the Guard burst through the barricades, hacking through staunch clumps of defenders who stood unflinchingly until cut down like wheat, water in their hair and fire in their eyes.

The last desperate clap of answering thunder came from the rebels around noon. The Corinth's rickety spiral staircase was dislodged and thrown to the floor of the lower room in a billow of dust and flying splinters. The Guard, finally pushing aside the shattered remnants of the wineshop's door and weaving past the remaining furniture, was beset with whatever scanty ammunition the rebels above could lay their hands on. The attackers scrambled for the hole where the staircase had been, stepping on one another in their frenzied haste, drawing swords and shouting unintelligibly. They clambered over their fellows, clawed up the walls, caught the edge of the floor above, were repulsed, fell back, and were promptly swarmed over by the next wave of men.

The wineshop's defenders leaned over the gaping hole and fought tooth and nail. The cartridges ran out; they used table legs, bottles, their bare hands. One by one they fell to volleys of musket fire or slices of steel. The Guard thrust collectively upwards, flung back its opponents on sword-edges, crawled through the gap in the second story floor, and caught its breath as it looked round at this last bastion of the emeuté.

Grantaire shifted after over twelve hours of deathlike stillness. As consciousness filtered back to him in maddeningly elusive, muzzy shafts, he became increasingly aware of the fact that he was most uncomfortably situated here, bent at a sharp angle over the jutting edge of his table with his face among a mess of empty bottles and jugs. Still, he felt no inclination to move, but was satisfied to stay slumped where he was, endeavoring to puzzle out why such an all-pervading, almost unearthly shroud of silence seemed to have descended on this room.

" -wish your eyes bandaged?"

This was something new to consider. Someone was asking a question. Of him?

Perhaps not. For another voice replied, in clear and steady tones, "No."

That voice stirred something in Grantaire, and he struggled to ascertain what it was. Another question was asked, and this time the voice said, "Yes."

A click echoed from across the room - muskets being loaded, Grantaire surmised detachedly. He recognized the voice in the next moment, and a dark, nameless terror clutched at him, caught and gathered in a cold inert lump at the back of his throat. He raised his head slowly.

Enjolras stood further off near the other back corner of the room, facing the opposite wall with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. The stump of a carbine rolled away from him and gently bumped the leg of the table.

Grantaire tore his eyes away and looked out across the room. Beyond the billiard table stood a firing squad, muskets cocked, faces intent on the lone man standing before them.

And suddenly comprehension sliced its searing way through Grantaire's skull. In an instant, the scene and all its nuances unfolded for him with perfect clarity. The dropped carbine. The broken floor. A single Guardsman standing off from his fellows with musket hanging, staring perplexedly at the target. And, most powerfully, Enjolras gazing fixedly at a point on the wall somewhere above the heads of the firing squad - erect, motionless, silent.

Yet - still more. Without having witnessed a moment of the preceding battle, and without possession of any unexpected clairvoyance, Grantaire _knew_ what had gone before.

Feuilly carving his impromptu message to future generations in the back wall of the wineshop; Jehan leading Les Amis in the reciting of a love poem even as the foreboding shadows of twilight closed in; Joly drawing a lighthearted lesson on creation from the presence of a cat; Combeferre discussing, of all absurd things, poetry translations mere hours before the fall of the barricades; Bossuet and Courfeyrac taunting cannons; Enjolras, trembling yet unrelenting, a terrible glint of passionate and sorrowful fury in his eyes, gunning down a young blond artilleryman. Inexorable, the half-realized images continued: Bahorel falling helplessly in an early attack, expiring swiftly and silently as runnels of blood blended with his crimson waistcoat; Gavroche choking on musket fire even as he finished his final impertinent song; M. Mabeuf toppling from the barricade, arms flung out to grasp something intangible as the flag fluttered above with the whistling grapeshot; timid Jehan crying out forcefully in the name of the Republic before the Guard shot him point-blank; Combeferre, stumbling and murmuring ever so softly, bayoneted as he staggered beneath the weight of a wounded man; Feuilly breaking from his position to hurl himself into the midst of a group of Guardsmen, only the sheared-off handle of a saber in his hand, bellowing "Poland" as he died atop the bodies of those he had slain; Bossuet and Joly being beaten back from their posts on the main barricade and stabbed by a multitude of eager swords; Courfeyrac hurling one last insult at the cannons before they hurled their own deadly barrage into his battle station.

Grantaire shuddered, not truly aware of any one of these specific instances but knowing full well that all of these men were gone, flung impersonally aside in the blood and the rubble and the rising smoke and dust. The course of this entire revelation spanned only a few seconds.

Enjolras, taut and alert, battle-rage still pounding in his ears, perceived Grantaire's slight movement and slid him a narrow glance out of the corner of his eye. That look said everything; no words could possibly have expressed the utter disdain in the curve of Enjolras's jaw, the flash of his profound gaze. Very plainly, it said, "Don't get up. Stay still, they won't notice you if you don't move. Might as well go back to your coma, because you have no business here. I will not have you sully my insurrection by getting yourself killed in it."

The simple force of that glance caused Grantaire to waver. There really was nothing he could do. He hardly knew, and certainly didn't care, what this man was fighting for. And then there was the drink, still clouding the ragged edges of his brain, a darkness that touched him familiarly on the shoulder and whispered, _sleep now you dont mind do you no of course not youd rather lie back down and pretend its nothing better that way dont you agree?_ His head hurt and his vision was swimming, and he wanted to say something - but there was Enjolras forbidding it with his eyes and the echoes of the lost Bossuet crying "Silence, capital R!"

His aching head was still up, but he was feeling that perhaps it should go back down. He looked slowly back to the firing squad, which was waiting for another order to take aim, and again he saw the young man standing apart and watching Enjolras with something like awe, dropping his gun and muttering it would be like shooting a flower. Something in the other's expression pulled at Grantaire, drew him closer and burrowed deep within him, touched chords he had not been aware of for a long time. Damn the Republic, he thought, and the next moment he was on his feet.

"Vive la République!" I really don't care, he insisted gently to himself, but "Count me in!"

The sergeant at the front of the squad glanced over, and the faces of the other men turned to him a moment later, as if they were all somehow wired to their leader's head. Enjolras, his eyes dark and stormy, compressed his lips and looked to the wall once more.

Grantaire sighed softly, forcing himself not to look beseechingly after Enjolras. He trembled for a fraction of a second, and thought, I could run, jump through that hole. Or sit back down and let them shoot me off the chair.

But that wouldn't help now. He swallowed hard and tensed his shoulders. If they would only hold their fire until he reached Enjolras-

He took a step, held his breath, looked to the sergeant and repeated himself. The other man was still, his face unreadable. Grantaire nodded to him politely, thanking him for his patience, and then crossed the floor swiftly, feeling his fingers clench and his eyes burn in a surge of adrenaline.

He halted at Enjolras's side and faced the squad. Unconsciously, he positioned himself further forward, as if to interpose his body between Enjolras and the imminent bullets. Too late for second thoughts now, R.

"Two at one shot," he told the sergeant, smiling slightly. Make your job easier, boy.

He steeled himself, holding his hands tightly at his sides, resisting the foolish urge to clutch at Enjolras's sleeve, trying to quell the pangs of terror rising in his chest and threatening to be expressed in his eyes. He pressed his lips together once more, then turned slightly to look at Enjolras.

"Will you permit it?" His eyes were bright now, tremulous, yet he fought to keep at least a hint of tranquility and resignation in them. Concentrating on keeping his voice from betraying him, he hardly thought of _what_ he said, and could not help but utter this phrase; he winced as he realized how desperate he sounded, how servile. To compensate, he tried harder to steady to steady his tone, and a hint of what was almost sarcasm entered his voice, reminding Enjolras that he knew very well how pathetic he was, that he had never expected anything but scorn.

Enjolras tilted his head slightly at Grantaire's voice, and, after a time, looked over. He studied the other man for a while, chewing his lip in sudden pensiveness. Then, seemingly without warning, his hand was hanging in the air between them.

Grantaire looked at it, slender and pale and well formed, and could not repress a shudder of- what? Fear? Awe? Relief? He wasn't quite sure. He took it in his own massive, blunt hand, and only then dared to look up at Enjolras.

A flicker of satisfaction passed over Enjolras's face, and he smiled at Grantaire.

Grantaire, never having been on the receiving end of this spontaneous, warm, surprisingly amiable expression - an expression that all at once smoothed the severe angles of the face it wreathed and thawed the ice in the blue eyes - went weak at the knees; nearly fell. A rush of joy coursed through him as he blinked, light-headed, and shook the hand.

But the smile had barely traversed the short distance between them when Grantaire was suddenly thrown backwards by an unknown force. There was a WHUMP as multiple somethings thudded into his body, and the breath was knocked cleanly from him.

There was no pain at first. He had time, as he toppled, to see Enjolras turn away at the sharp report, face the opposite wall again, a smile on his lips. Then Grantaire was on the floor, wondering, for a moment, what had happened - and he looked up slightly and saw his own blood. The fear nearly overwhelmed him for a moment, but then he cast his eyes further up and saw Enjolras standing over him, smiling, against the wall. And all was well.

Grantaire saw, in muted colors, the ceiling above him, and then came to notice that Enjolras was very still, that he no longer stared at a fixed point above the Guardsmen. His head was canted a bit downward, and his wide eyes gazed across the room as if there was no squad, no wall - as if there was only a great open stretch of land as far as the horizon.

There was blood there too, trickling sluggishly down Enjolras's chest. Grantaire let himself sink completely to the ground, keeping his gaze fixed on the pale, serene oval of Enjolras's face as the darkness came tumbling down.

The Guardsmen dispersed in various directions, seeking out the last stalwart insurgents holed up in whatever spaces they could find.

Upstairs, men hacked through already splintering wooden doors, leapt savagely into desperate combat, scrambled out across the roof.

Downstairs, men rushed through the cellars, upending barrels and ferreting out hiding rebels from behind piled crates, wading through spilt blood and wine.

And on the second floor, under the waning bars of fickle sunlight, a man found that sleeping against the scuffed, warm shoes of another flesh and blood being was infinitely more satisfying than sleeping by the goldenly untouchable sandals of a god.

__

FINIS


End file.
